


Clean Cut

by StarHost



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Character, a little vague, mentions of light hygiene neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3858658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarHost/pseuds/StarHost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke has a casual walk and talk with two favourite friends. </p><p>(Alternatively: Isabela and Aveline ask about the origin of Hawke's terrible hair, and a story is told. Takes place just before act 3 or in its very early stages. Lots of things are very vague.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Hawke is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns.

Sweat forms as it always does: everywhere inconvenient. It coats skin in a generous layer, dripping down past cheekbones and round chins, making dulled spatters in the dirt. Stinging vaguely at chapped lips, who - with better days long behind them - tug down at the corners in inconvenience. The worst are the unexposed areas, underarms and gloved hands. The places sweat pools and disperses creating salt stains in fabric hard won.

There’s an intake of breath, a sweep of a sweat covered hand across a sweat covered face, mostly useless but the sentiment is there. Sparks crackle in the air surrounding, matted hair standing on end as a charge pulls inward - holds - and bursts out, volts connecting vital areas. Stopping hearts, charring flesh.

There’s an immediate smell but no time to think on it, as a makeshift staff is thrust backward, blade end embedding with a definitive squelch. Another sharp inhale, then a pant, and the blade is removed in a single sharp gesture. The last body crumples, and all at once silence rushes into the room.

Hawke grounds their staff into the dust, a support to shift weight against. They inhale, deep and needy, lungs burning, a hand on knee where they’re keeled. Its a generous pause, these few fleeting moments, but nothing is said as they catch their breath. A couple coughs crash off the walls from a few paces over, and once Hawke’s vision clears they slowly stretch into a stand.

Gore and debris litter the area, the heat of the afternoon already giving way to an unnatural odor. Hawke frowns, disgruntled, and is glad at least that clean-up is someone else’s duty today. They look down briefly, noticing a sizable reddened splotch on the toe of their boot, and flick their head upwards in a motion of annoyance.

“I just got these!” They say. “The blood’ll never come out.”

Isabela hums from across the way, hand deep in the pocket of a fairly intact corpse.

“Red suits you, sweet thing,” She smiles. “Brings out your eyes.”

Hawke snorts.

“It’s true!”

Isabela stands, grinning at the weight of the purse in her palm, and turns toward the rest of the party.

“I suggest you take the compliment while you still can. Not many souls can find the appeal behind that dreadful mess you call hair.”

This makes them bark a laugh, sharp and sudden but genuine on all accounts. Hawke shows teeth at her, not even bothering to front offense as they grin to the corners of their eyes.

“Makes me look rather dark and mysterious, you know. ‘Cuz you can’t see my eyebrows. Besides, its practical.”

“Oh, dear. The only  _practical_  thing there is the storage space you’ve managed between your tangles. Are you still hiding the tattered bracelet you pulled out of that barrel in there? Could be storing your fortune before my eyes and I wouldn’t even know.”

Hawke attempts to cover their grin with a gore laden hand, then quickly rethinks the idea. “Still there.”

A mouth twists in a disciplined sort of disgust, and to their left Aveline speaks.

“She does bring up a point, Hawke,” She starts, and pointedly ignores the smirk Isabela flashes her way. “You should try to keep it in order. The way your hair is now I’m surprised you can even see at all.”

“I get by.” Hawke answers.

“Not well enough, if you ask me. You’ve got blind spots all over.” Aveline shifts under her armor, gesturing to Hawke with her chin. “It’s dangerous.”

“ _Yes mum_.” They chuckle in good nature, pulling their stave from the dirt once they feel stable enough to hold weight again. Isabela gives a snort, joining them after her scavenge is done. “I’ve never had long hair, you know. Wanted to grow it out when I was little but got to here-” Hawke makes a cutting gesture at chin length “-and just... stopped.”

The party moves slowly, up creaking steps to a higher level of the room, away from the gentle lap of waves at the dock. The interior parts of the warehouse aren’t huge, and though it meant less room for surprises, it also meant less space to swing. Hawke rolls a shoulder testingly, certain something would be aching in the morning, and made it halfway to the door before going on.

“Felt right, you know? The way it is. Like it belonged on my head. Impossible to tie back though. Mother threw a fit when she first saw it - I’d hacked the bangs down with an old shiv I found in Dad’s things - going on about how I coulda cut my face up just as easy. Fair enough, but I’m not the clumsy sort, and it wasn’t my first time with a sharp edge. She wasn’t fond was it. Still isn’t, but she just sighs now instead of yelling, and that’s not too bad.”

It’s still rather quiet as they get to the door, Aveline putting her shoulder into working the wood open. They’re all drenched and tired, and the harsh sun that greets them when they make it to the street only adds to the fatigue.

“Smell that fresh ocean air.” Isabela jokes, and they all share a worn laugh. Still, the stagnant, fish-mixed-underbelly waft of the docks is preferable to their previous location. Hawke’s staff is strapped back in place now, and as they trudge through the bustle no ones seems to give it any mind.

There’s a light mood between them that’s carried through the whole day, reaffirmed when Isabela strikes the punchline to a particularly dirty joke and Aveline has to turn away to hide a laugh. Her armor clangs in slight with the shaking of her shoulders though, and it’s enough to give the rogue a satisfied grin for the rest of the journey.

“So, Hawke,” Aveline manages as they climb the steps into Lowtown, mirth still in her tone. “Who kept your hair for you? After your first try, I mean. I don’t see you being allowed to hold anything sharp for a while after that.” The words are easy and a friendly sort of curious, and they make Hawke smile a little.

“They had a talk afterward, my parents. I’m not sure exactly what they said but I got to keep the style.” Hawke shrugged. “It was a group effort at first. Dad and Beth had the steadiest hands. Mother refused most times, spite, probably, and Carver -  _oh_. Carver gave it a go once. I don’t recommend you ask him for a cut unless you fancy looking like you were done in by kitchenware.”

Both companions look at them, and without missing a beat Isabela says, “So  _that’s_  why it’s such a spot on impression of an overturned bowl. I thought my curiosity would never be sated!”

“Hey!”

Hawke nudges at Isabela with their shoulder, trying to act annoyed but emitting a skittering laugh instead. Thinking of what their hair looked like now, they suppose, it was a fair point. It’d been a while since they went through the motions of caring for it properly. It didn’t seem as important anymore, little did. When it got too long - bangs working their way into the necessary edges of their vision - Hawke simply gripped the nearest dagger and hacked until it felt better. How long had it been since they’d bothered to really sit down and fuss over cutting it neat and even? There used to be a pride there, a giddy sense of rightness that made the upkeep enjoyable. Exactly when had Hawke stopped caring?

Their smile falters, but regains composure quickly as the thoughts are swallowed down.

“That was when I was a child.” They state. “When I didn’t need as much help with things I started on my own. Been doing it myself ever since, so if any teasing’s to be done you know who to direct it to.”

There are a couple snickers, and Isabela sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose lightly. She opens her mouth as if to retort, but doesn’t get the chance.

“Nobody’s perfect. I suppose even the great  _Champion_  struggles with basic hygiene now and then.”

“ _Aveline!_ ”

This time their laughter is loud, more energy in it as they turn the corner, catching sight of the Hanged Man as they do. Slowly the sound rounds, and they slow to stand outside the building casually, as if they had just come home from a simple days work, one that hadn’t involved slicing up smugglers in the shadowed corners of the docks.

“This is me, then.” Isabela sighs. She rolls her shoulders and straightens, as if bracing for a battle of an entirely different atmosphere. “Always nice to spend an afternoon listening to the clinking of coin in my pocket. Let’s hope I can spend it in peace this time.”

She makes for the door, but pauses only after a few paces, turning back and tossing a small purse into Hawke’s hands.

“There’s enough for both your shares there.” She shrugs, nonchalant as ever, even as Aveline raises a hand in protest.

“Not interested.” The Guard Captain replies, in a tone that suggests this is an old routine. “Stealing from thieves is is still stealing.”

Isabela rolls her eyes. “What, not into taking from the rich to give to the needy and all that? I doubt they’ve got interest for coin what with little bits of them scattered everywhere.”

“I’ve got a salary. I have no need.”

Hawke holds the sack in their hand, still, but takes a step towards Isabela with a knowing look.

“I’ve got an estate now, remember?” They state, voice a calm low. “Can’t say I qualify as needy.”

Isabela blinks, then takes back the purse with little hesitation. An unreadable expression ghosts across her features, but is gone with a tilt of the head, and she hums an almost disappointed note.

“More for me then. Can’t complain about that.” She raises her eyebrows. “You know where to find me if need be. And Hawke?”

Hawke tilts their head. “Yeah?”

“If you’d ever like to stop looking like an abandoned cat, I happen to be  _quite_  skilled with a pair of scissors.”

She makes a snipping motion with her fingers, and Hawke laughs, blushing only slightly.

“Not quite how I’d envisioned being wooed, but I suppose I should be flattered. I may hold you to that.” Their inhale feels strange at the thought, cool despite the heat and nostalgic for the scent of earth. They hadn’t even considered... Maybe it’d be nice, to have things back in order. Knots undone and edges even again. Clean.

A tightness grasps their throat, and the rest of the wording is lost. Hawke simply nods a thanks, and when Isabela slips inside the tavern something settles in their chest, a heavy sort of hope.

It takes only a glance from Aveline for the silence to slide into something comfortable, something understood, and the pair journeyed the steps to Hightown with weary limbs and strong spirits. When they part Hawke shoots her a fond smile, and treks the last distance alone.

Something flutters in their chest, as if stirring from a forgotten sleep, and as they push open their door they imagine sharp lines; neat cuts with even edges. The sense of Right in combed-out tangles. A satisfaction at their reflection that had been scarce for years.

A good feeling, like a puzzle piece fitting snugly into place.

**Author's Note:**

> when hawke refers to leandra they do so using language that suggests she is still alive. She is not. Hawke doesn't use past tense with regards to leandra for a long time.


End file.
